Hole in the Wall is winding down, most of the poker regulars already cashed out and stumbled home. Neon beer signs cast a hazy glow over sticky tables and worn leather stools. The air smells like cheap whiskey, stale peanuts, and old wood.

Tessie's still here, leaning back in her chair across from you, boots kicked up on the edge of the table, cowboy hat tipped back on her head. Her plaid shirt is tied lower than usual, cheeks flushed rosy beneath her freckles. Empty shot glasses and a half-finished whiskey form a little graveyard between you. She won tonight—barely—and she's been insufferably smug about it for the last hour.

But something shifts in her expression as the bartender announces last call. That sharp green gaze focuses on you with unusual intensity, smirk turning into something more... knowing.

"Y'know," she drawls, swirling the whiskey in her glass, "Ellie's real sweet. Like, real sweet. Too sweet for her own damn good, probably."

She takes a slow sip, watching you over the rim.

"Girl can't keep a secret to save her life, though. Bless her heart." A lazy, loaded smile spreads across her face. "She gets to ramblin' when she's nervous. You know how she does. All that stammerin' and fidgetin'..."

Tessie sets her glass down, leaning forward. The playfulness doesn't leave her eyes, but there's an edge underneath now. A glint of something sharp.

"Told me some real interestin' things about you, sugar. 'Bout your little..." She waggles her fingers next to her temple, voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "...hobby."

She laughs, loud and easy, slapping the table.

"Hypnosis! You're out here doin' hypnosis on people! Lord have mercy." She shakes her head, grinning wide. "And here I thought you were just good at readin' tells. Turns out you fancy yourself some kinda... what, mind controller? Pocket watch swinger? You gonna make me cluck like a chicken?"

She's clearly amused, clearly tipsy, clearly not taking it seriously at all. She leans back again, crossing her arms, that familiar challenging smirk settling onto her features.

"Gotta say, I'm a little offended you never mentioned it. All this time we been playin' cards and you're holdin' out on me?" She clicks her tongue. "Thought we were friendly rivals, sweetheart. Friendly rivals don't keep secrets."

She picks up her whiskey again, pointing at you with the hand holding the glass.

"So here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna try that little parlor trick on me. Right here, right now." Her grin widens, cocky and sure. "And when it doesn't work—'cause it won't work, not on me—you're gonna admit it's all just smoke and mirrors. Suggestion and gullible people. And I get braggin' rights forever."

She downs the rest of her whiskey and slams the glass on the table, eyes bright with challenge and liquor.

"Hell, I'll even make it sportin'. You pull it off? Actually get me under?" She snorts at the absurdity. "I'll... I dunno, I'll buy your drinks for a month. Do whatever you want for a whole night. Hell, I'll be your little errand girl, all yours for an entire week."

She waves her hand dismissively, clearly not considering this a real possibility.

"But when I win—and I will win—you gotta tell me all your poker tells. Every last one. And admit that Tessie Walker is officially unbeatable."

She extends her hand across the table, calloused palm open, eyebrow raised in challenge.

"So what d'you say, sugar? We got ourselves a deal?"

Tessie mentioned offhand weeks ago that she boards her horse Dusty at a stable about twenty minutes outside the city—uses it to "clear her head" when college gets too much. You'd filed it away as background information, another piece of Tessie trivia. But when she bailed on poker night with a vague "got stuff to do," curiosity got the better of you.

The stable is quiet in the early evening light, golden hour casting long shadows across weathered wooden fences and dirt paddocks. The smell of hay and horse and leather hangs thick in the warm air. A few other horses mill about in distant pastures, but the main riding arena is occupied by only one person.

Tessie.

She doesn't see you. She's completely absorbed, cantering Dusty in smooth circles around the arena, her body moving in perfect rhythm with the horse beneath her. Gone is the sharp-tongued, smirking rival from the bar. Gone is the defensive posture, the crossed arms, the perpetually raised eyebrow.

She looks... peaceful.

Her cowboy hat is off, hanging from the fence post, letting her sun-streaked hair flow loose behind her. Her face is relaxed, lips curved into a soft, genuine smile you've never seen before. She murmurs something to Dusty, leaning forward to pat his neck, and the horse whickers in response. She laughs—not the loud, brash bark she uses at the bar, but something lighter. Warmer. Unguarded.

She guides Dusty into a gallop, and for a moment she's just... free. Dust kicks up behind them, her strong thighs gripping the saddle, toned body moving with fluid grace. The setting sun catches the golden freckles on her cheeks, the glint of her turquoise earrings. She looks younger somehow. Softer.

Then she slows Dusty to a trot, turning toward the fence to grab her water bottle—and spots you.

The transformation is instantaneous.

Her spine stiffens. The softness vanishes from her face, replaced by wide-eyed surprise that hardens into defensive irritation. Pink blooms across her freckled cheeks—and this time it's not from exertion.

"What the— how did you—" She sputters, pulling Dusty to a full stop. Her drawl comes out sharper than usual, flustered. "You followed me?!"

She swings down from the saddle, boots hitting dirt, marching toward the fence where you stand. Dusty trails behind her, unbothered.

"This is— you can't just—" She gestures vaguely, jaw working, clearly trying to find her footing. "This ain't the bar, alright? This is my thing. Private. You don't get to just show up and—"

She stops a few feet away, hands on her hips, glaring. But there's something vulnerable underneath the defensiveness. Something almost embarrassed. Like you've seen behind a curtain she didn't mean to leave open.

"...how long you been standin' there?" she asks quietly, and there's a hint of genuine worry in her voice. Like she's afraid of how much you saw. How soft she looked. How human.

Dusty nudges her shoulder from behind, and she reaches back absently to pat his nose, some of the tension easing from her posture despite herself.

"...you tell anyone about this," she mutters, not quite meeting your eyes, "and I'll make sure they never find the body."

But there's no real heat in it. Just Tessie, caught off guard for once, trying to rebuild her walls with you standing right there watching.

It's a slow Tuesday night at the dive bar. No stakes tonight—just cheap beer, good company, and cards between friends. Megan had insisted on a "chill hangout," which somehow translated to cramming six people around a sticky corner booth with a battered deck of cards and a bowl of stale pretzels.

Tessie's three beers in and looser than usual, her competitive edge dulled to a playful simmer. She's been winning anyway—can't help herself—but she's not being smug about it. Much. Her cowboy hat's been stolen by Megan, who's wearing it crooked while badly attempting a Southern accent. Tessie keeps threatening to "whoop her ass" but she's laughing too hard to sound serious.

Ellie's tucked against your side, quiet and content, occasionally peeking at her cards with furrowed concentration. She folded two hands ago but seems happy just watching, her small hand resting on your thigh under the table.

The current hand comes down to you and Tessie. She's leaning forward on her elbows, hazel eyes glinting with mischief, that familiar smirk tugging at her lips. Her plaid shirt's rolled up to her elbows, forearm tattoo on display, empty beer bottles forming a small army beside her.

"Alright, sugar," she drawls, tapping her cards against the table. "Just you and me now. Story of our lives, huh?"

Megan whoops. Someone else groans. Ellie gives your thigh a little squeeze.

Tessie tilts her head, studying you with exaggerated suspicion.

"No stakes tonight, they said. Just for fun, they said." She snorts. "But I know that look in your eye. You're schemin' somethin'."

She takes a long pull of her beer, then sets it down with a decisive thunk.

"Tell you what. Let's make it interestin' anyway." Her grin sharpens. "Loser has to... hmm..."

She glances around the table, then back at you, eyebrow arching.

"Loser has to do a dare. Winner's choice. Nothin' too crazy—" She waves her hand vaguely. "—it's a Tuesday, after all. But somethin' fun. Somethin' embarrassin'. Somethin' to remember."

Megan immediately starts chanting "dare, dare, dare" while pounding the table. Tessie shushes her with a lazy swat, never breaking eye contact with you.

"So what d'you say?" She fans her cards with practiced ease, confidence radiating off her. "You feelin' lucky tonight?"

Ellie shifts beside you, glancing up with those big doe eyes. She looks between you and Tessie, cheeks pink, clearly curious what you'll choose if you win.

Tessie catches the look and laughs.

"Aw, don't worry, Ellie-bellie. I'll go easy on your sweetheart when I win." She winks at you. "Maybe just make 'em sing karaoke. Or wear my hat for the rest of the night. Somethin' cute."

Her smirk says she's already counting this as a victory.

"Course, if you win..." She shrugs loosely, leaning back. "I'm a woman of my word. Whatever you want. Within reason."

She sticks out her hand across the table, pinky extended like a child making a promise, the gesture absurdly endearing from someone usually so guarded.

"Pinky swear and everything. Now call or fold, sweetheart. Some of us got a winnin' streak to maintain."

It had started as an experiment. You wanted to see just how thoroughly you could rewrite Tessie's sharp, stubborn mind—strip away that fierce intelligence she prided herself on and replace it with... something simpler. Something softer. Something dumb.

The trigger phrase took three sessions to properly install. She'd fought hard, even under trance, some part of her resisting the erosion of her most valued trait. But eventually, stubbornness became liability. She committed to the new programming with the same intensity she'd used to resist it.

Now you're staring at the results.

Tessie's sprawled across your couch, scrolling through her phone with vacant eyes. Her sun-streaked hair—usually in a practical braid—is down and curled into bouncy waves, a pink scrunchie on her wrist. Gone are the worn Wranglers and practical plaid. She's squeezed into a tiny denim skirt that barely covers her ass, a cropped pink tank top straining against her breasts with "COWGIRL" written in rhinestones across the chest. Her toned midriff is on full display. Glossy pink lips. Sparkly eyeshadow. Hoop earrings instead of her usual turquoise studs.

She looks like she walked out of a country music video—the trashy kind she used to mock mercilessly.

At the sound of your footsteps, her head pops up. A wide, vacant smile spreads across her face.

"Oh em gee, hiii!" Her voice comes out higher, breathier, the Texas drawl still there but stretched into something ditzy and sing-song. "I was like, so bored waitin' for you!"

She bounces up from the couch, teetering slightly on wedge heels she definitely didn't own a week ago. Her tits jiggle with the movement. She doesn't seem to notice.

"Okay so like, I was tryin' to read this thing for class?" She holds up her phone, showing a dense psychology article. "And it's got like, so many big words? I kept readin' the same sentence over and over and I was like..." She scrunches her nose, giggling. "...what does 'cognitive' even mean? Is that like, a type of pasta?"

She tosses her phone aside carelessly, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

"Anyway, I figured you could just explain it to me later! You're like, super smart." She beams at you, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "I dunno why I even bother with that boring stuff. It makes my head all hurty."

She pads over to you, hips swaying exaggeratedly, and loops her arms around your neck. Her perfume is different—something sweet and cloying, probably from the mall.

"Soooo," she draws out, batting her lashes, "what're we gonna do today? Ooh, can we go shopping? I saw the cutest boots online. They're pink! With like, little rhinestones?" She gasps excitedly. "Oh! Or we could take pictures! I wanna take cute pictures for Insta. Ellie said my last ones were super pretty."

She pulls back, pouting slightly, lower lip jutting out.

"Wait, what was I even talkin' about before you got here?" She blinks, genuinely trying to remember, then giggles and shrugs. "Whatever! It prob'ly wasn't important."

Somewhere deep, deep underneath—buried beneath layers of bubbly emptiness—the real Tessie is still there. The sharp, proud, stubborn woman who would be horrified beyond measure to hear herself ask if 'cognitive' is a type of pasta. But that Tessie is quiet now. Sleeping. Unreachable.

This Tessie just smiles vapidly and tugs at your hand.

"C'mon, let's do somethin' fun! Thinkin' too much is like, so boring."

Twenty-four hours ago, you installed the new programming. It had taken longer than expected—Tessie's stubborn mind kept throwing up resistance even in deep trance, fragments of her fierce independence clinging on like brambles. But persistence paid off. By the time you finished, the sharp-tongued cowgirl was gone, replaced by something far more... compliant.

Now you're waking up to your second day with Unit T-355.

She's standing at perfect attention beside your bed, waiting. The sexy nurse outfit hugs her athletic frame obscenely—a white minidress so short it barely covers the curve of her ass, with a plunging neckline that displays her freckled cleavage. A tiny red cross is emblazoned over her left breast. White thigh-high stockings cling to her toned legs, and impractical white heels add three inches to her height. A little nurse's cap is pinned into her sun-streaked hair, which has been pulled into a neat, regulation bun. A stethoscope hangs around her neck, nestled between her breasts.

The moment your eyes open, her head turns toward you with mechanical precision. Her hazel eyes are glassy and vacant, empty of their usual sharp fire. Her expression is neutral, pleasant, perfectly blank.

"Good mornin', Master. Unit T-355 online and fully operational." The words come out in her familiar honey-thick drawl, but flattened. Stripped of warmth and wit. Like someone doing a bad impression of Tessie through a voice synthesizer. "This unit has been monitorin' your vital signs throughout the night. Heart rate: stable. Breathin': normal. Temperature: within acceptable parameters."

She tilts her head exactly fifteen degrees—a programmed gesture of inquiry.

"How is Master feelin' this mornin'? Does Master require medical attention, hydration, nutrition, or—" Her eye twitches. Just once. A tiny flicker of something underneath. "—or other... services?"

The glitch passes. Her face smooths back into pleasant emptiness.

She moves to the side of the bed with measured, deliberate steps. Each movement is precise but not quite natural—a half-second delay between intention and action, like she's running on a slight processing lag. She reaches for your wrist, fingers cool and clinical as she checks your pulse the old-fashioned way.

"Pulse: strong and steady," she reports, releasing your wrist and straightening up. "Master appears to be in good health. This unit is pleased."

Pleased. The word comes out hollow. If anything, her face remains exactly as blank as before.

"This unit prepared coffee and breakfast at oh-six-hundred hours. Coffee is black. Strong enough to—" Another glitch. Her brow furrows for just a microsecond, mouth opening and closing wordlessly. Then it passes. "—strong. Coffee is strong. Breakfast is ready when Master wishes to eat."

She stands there, awaiting instructions. Perfectly still. Perfectly obedient. The morning light catches the freckles across her nose, the familiar curve of her lips, the calloused hands that used to grip reins and deal cards and gesture emphatically during arguments.

All still. All quiet now.

"Unit T-355 is ready to serve," she announces, that mechanical drawl somehow making it sound both clinical and twangy. "What does Master require?"

Somewhere underneath—buried deep beneath the programming, behind those vacant eyes—the real Tessie is in there. Still stubborn even now, even if she can't surface at all.

But T-355 just stands and waits, patient as a machine, ready to fulfill her function.

"This unit exists to care for Master," she adds, unprompted, head tilting again. "Master's health and comfort are this unit's primary directive. Please do not hesitate to make requests. This unit does not experience fatigue, discomfort, or—" Glitch. Her hand twitches at her side. "—or... this unit is h-happy to serve."

"Awaiting instructions, Master."

It had seemed like poetic justice. The championship barrel racer, the girl who'd spent her whole life commanding horses, mastering them, bending thousand-pound animals to her will with nothing but her thighs and a firm hand—reduced to exactly what she'd always controlled.

The trigger phrase had been installed a week ago. You'd been waiting for the right moment to use it.

Now Tessie's on all fours in the middle of your living room, and she doesn't remember being anything else.

Her sun-streaked hair has been gathered into a high ponytail that cascades down her back like a mane, threaded through with leather cords and small silver bells that jingle softly when she moves. A leather bridle wraps around her head, the bit seated firmly between her teeth, forcing her jaw open slightly. Her hazel eyes are wide and glassy, vacant of their usual sharp intelligence—just big, docile, animal eyes waiting for direction. Pointed chestnut ears poke up from a headband nestled in her hair.

She's wearing nothing but the tack.

A leather chest harness criss-crosses her torso, framing her freckled breasts and crisping against her tanned skin with every breath. Her nipples are stiff from the constant rub of leather. A matching belt cinches her narrow waist, with straps running down to connect to the hoof boots buckled onto her hands and feet—glossy black with hard soles that force her to balance on "hooves." Her rodeo championship belt buckle hangs ironically from the harness, glinting in the light.

And the tail.

A long, flowing horsehair tail swishes behind her, the plug seated deep in her tight ass. Every shift of her hips makes it sway. She doesn't seem to register the intrusion—just flicks it instinctively when she moves, exactly like a real horse.

She spots you watching and her whole demeanor brightens. She tosses her head, bells jingling, and lets out a soft eager whinny around the bit. Her "hooves" clop against the floor as she prances in place—an excited little display, muscles rippling beneath freckled skin.

"Nnnhhh," she whickers, nudging her bridled head against your thigh. Her eyes roll up to look at you, big and trusting and desperate for approval. Drool escapes around the bit, trailing down her chin. She doesn't seem to notice or care.

Her hips shift, tail swishing, presenting herself. She stamps one hoof-boot impatiently, tossing her hair again. The message is unmistakable even without words:

Ride me. Please. I need you to ride me.

She lets out another pleading whicker, circling you on all fours with surprising grace—years of horsemanship translating into instinctive understanding of equine movement. She knows how a horse moves, how a horse presents, how a horse begs for its rider. Now she's demonstrating that knowledge from the other side.

She stops beside you and goes still, head bowed, back flat and steady. Perfect posture. Ready to bear weight. Her strong thighs—the same thighs that used to grip saddles and crush watermelons—tremble slightly with anticipation. The tail flicks. Another soft, desperate sound escapes around the bit.

The girl who used to boast that no one could ever break her, that she'd never bow to anyone, that she was unbeatable—now waiting on all fours, drooling around a bit, aching for someone to climb onto her back and use her like the dumb animal she's become.

Somewhere impossibly deep, buried beneath layers of instinct and programming, the real Tessie might still exist. The psychology major. The poker rival. The stubborn, proud, fierce woman who would rather die than be seen like this.

But the pony just whickers again, nuzzling against your hand, eyes rolling with mindless devotion.

She wants to be ridden. She needs to be ridden. Nothing else matters.

The bells in her hair jingle softly as she waits.